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*Year 59 AE, 12th Day of the Green Moon*

Today, the forest whispered secrets only the most attuned could hear. As I, Thalia Fernstep, wandered the edges of Galdrowen, curiosity tugged at my heart—a constant companion. The scent of wild herbs and the rustle of unseen creatures danced around me, each step echoing the pulse of the ancient wood.

Elder Mossbeard had tasked me with scouting the forest’s periphery, an honor few young Beastkin like myself received. The elders often spoke of the forest as a living entity, its will felt through the deep roots and whispering leaves. I, driven by more than duty, hoped to glimpse the mysterious Grove-Wyrms, the legendary protectors of our realm.

As daylight waned, the air grew thick with enchantment. I found myself at the foot of the Elderroot, a colossal tree rumored to be the heart of Galdrowen. Here, I paused, resting against its ancient bark. My eyes drifted closed, and the world around me faded into a tapestry of dreams.

—

In my vision, the world was awash with vibrant hues, the forest alive with a magic I had never known. I stood in a clearing, and before me loomed five magnificent Grove-Wyrms, their scales shimmering with the essence of life itself. They moved with a grace that belied their size, their eyes holding the wisdom of ages.

One Wyrm stepped forward, its voice a gentle breeze that ruffled my fur. “Daughter of the forest, seeker of truths, you stand on the cusp of destiny.”

I blinked, unsure if this was truly a dream or some deeper connection to the spirit of Elarion. “Why have you summoned me?” I asked, my voice a whisper in the dreamscape.

“The Withering Skies approach,” the Wyrm intoned, “a time of shadow and change. But hope endures in those who listen to the land’s call. Will you be our voice, Thalia Fernstep?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril. I nodded, feeling a bond form between us, a pact as old as the forest itself.

—

I awoke with a start, the vision fading like morning mist. The Elderroot stood silent, its secrets hidden once more. Yet, the weight of the prophecy lingered, urging me onward.

That evening, I returned to Thornhall Grove, my heart aflame with purpose. Elder Mossbeard awaited me, his eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge. “You have seen them, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

I nodded. “The Grove-Wyrms spoke of the Withering Skies, a time of change.”

The elder sighed, his branches creaking with the sigh of the ancient forest. “The Verdant Circle must prepare. Nature’s balance is delicate, and the dragons’ awakening signals a shift.”

As we spoke, I noticed Nuala of the Grove standing nearby, her gaze distant, as if she too heard the forest’s song. “The dreams have been restless,” she murmured, her voice a lilting melody. “The Wyrms call for unity among us.”

Together, we crafted plans, weaving a tapestry of alliances and strategies to safeguard our home. Brambletooth, our loyal Warden, pledged protection. “Let any who threaten our glades face my tusks,” he declared, his resolve as unyielding as the forest floor.

As night fell, I lay beneath the canopy, the stars winking through the leaves. The Grove-Wyrms’ prophecy echoed in my mind, a melody of hope and challenge. In this diary, I etch my experiences, a record of a day where dreams and reality intertwined, shaping the future of Galdrowen.

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*Year 59 AE, 13th Day of the Green Moon*

Morning dawned with the promise of adventure. Nuala and I ventured into the heart of the forest, seeking the wisdom of the Grove-Wyrms once more. Each step was a dance with destiny, the earth beneath our feet thrumming with energy.

As we walked, Nuala spoke of her dreams, vivid echoes of the Wyrms’ song. “There is a prophecy,” she said, “of a time when the forest will rise to defend itself, guided by those who heed its call.”

Her words resonated within me, a reminder of the pact I had made. The forest’s future was intertwined with ours, its fate resting in our hands.

At midday, we reached the sacred glade where the Wyrms slumbered, their presence a comforting weight in the air. I knelt, placing a hand on the earth. “We are here,” I whispered, “to listen, to learn.”

The largest Wyrm stirred, its eyes opening slowly. “Thalia Fernstep, Nuala of the Grove, you have answered the call. The Withering Skies approach, but you are not alone. The forest stands with you.”

A sense of peace enveloped me, the Wyrms’ words a balm to my soul. We spoke of many things—of unity, of strength, of the bond between the land and its protectors. As the sun dipped below the horizon, we departed, our hearts light with hope.

—

*Year 59 AE, 14th Day of the Green Moon*

The days blend together, each one a step closer to the prophecy’s fulfillment. Thornhall Grove buzzes with activity, the Beastkin and druids united in purpose. We prepare for the Withering Skies, our resolve unshakable.

Elder Mossbeard guides us, his wisdom a beacon in the gathering gloom. “The forest has faced darkness before,” he tells us, “and it will do so again. Trust in the land, and in each other.”

I find solace in these words, my confidence bolstered by the strength of my kin. Together, we are a force of nature, a testament to the enduring spirit of Galdrowen.

As I pen this entry, I feel the forest’s heartbeat in my veins, a reminder of the bond I share with the Grove-Wyrms. The path ahead is uncertain, but I am ready to walk it, for myself, for my people, and for the land that cradles us all.

In these pages, I capture the essence of our journey, a chronicle of hope and courage. The Withering Skies may come, but we will face them together, guided by the light of the forest and the wisdom of the Grove-Wyrms.

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